


the red couch sessions

by serinesaccade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Humor, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Enjolras, Therapy, Unreliable Narrator, the regular tags you know how it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27255040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serinesaccade/pseuds/serinesaccade
Summary: Wherein Grantaire has a therapist, and a friend-with-benefits he's in love with and thus trying to stop seeing. Neither of those are working out in the pessimistic way he'd envisioned.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 282





	the red couch sessions

**Author's Note:**

> yes I did another FWB  
> yes it's still ridiculous  
> no i do not take constructive criticism  
> *lights pile of writing on fire*  
> *turns on fan*  
> *plays in flaming recycling bin tornado*  
> as a real actual warning: I am not a therapist. I was writing the portions with Grantaire's therapist. do not take these as real-life therapy advice. I do not have that degree. I do not want to hurt you. well. i do want to hurt you. but just with fanfic feels.

Drugs are supposed to work like this: you take them, and you take them again, until whatever amount used to get you high just leaves you buzzed and longing.

Grantaire knew this. He just didn’t think his relationship with Enjolras could work the same way.

At the beginning, even being in the same room was enough to leave him shivery and glowing. Now, he gets to touch.

And touch, and _touch_ , and—

It’d be easier, if Enjolras didn’t take the _friends_ part of _friends-with-benefits_ with the same scorching seriousness as he took everything else. Enjolras doesn’t demand, or overstep. He comes to Grantaire’s art show (understanding none of it), and sits next to Joly at Grantaire’s boxing matches with wide eyes, and after all of these things he takes Grantaire to bed with a frankly ridiculous amount of prep work. Grantaire tries to return the favor with homemade meals and posters and being less cutting at meetings; Grantaire doesn’t do nearly as good of a job. When they take the metro home after volunteering Enjolras looks so sleepy, swaying on his feet but refusing to take a seat from anyone else, that it’s harder to watch than to lean back, and pat his knees meaningfully.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, after all of these things. More and more, he thanks Grantaire. Like he’s finally figured out it’s being offered sincerely. He says _thank you_ into Grantaire’s pulse point, a good amount of the time. That must be why it makes his heart stutter so severely. The sweetest injection to his bloodstream. And it’s okay, that he doesn’t mean it in the same way Grantaire feels it. Enjolras is trying him out. Enjolras is having a sample platter of sexual expression because he is, despite some evidence to the contrary, a young adult in his twenties with hormones and a body that—yeah. Grantaire doesn’t need to think about his body.

At least now, when his feelings for his golden god are too much to bear, Grantaire has an outlet. The words and the relationship are never gonna happen. Obviously. But Enjolras passes out immediately following any sexual activity, and doesn’t seem to notice or care about hickies, and doesn’t wake up when Grantaire strokes his curls or his cheek, or scoots out of bed and spends three midnight hours frantically hunched over his sketchbook, phone propped against his chest for a dim light source, preserving every sight of skin he was graced with earlier.

In short… Enjolras lets Grantaire play at intimacy. Which is fine. Addictive. Probably harmless.

Enjolras raises funds for human trafficking and marches on capital buildings and continues to not understand how immorality could’ve taken such deep roots in humanity— he’s irresistible. Grantaire doesn’t do any of those things. Grantaire—Grantaire is an okay listener. He is excellent at blowjobs. Sometimes he’s funny.

(“You know you have inherent worth outside sex or other skills you’ve developed,” says Grantaire’s therapist, “don’t you?”

“Uh huh,” says Grantaire, mentally calculating whether he has the income to cover therapy sessions for that sustained trauma. “Totally do.”)

“You’re going to do something about this,” Courfeyrac says at one point, when Enjolras attends a meeting wearing Grantaire’s scarf and has his long hair tied up with a foamy strip Grantaire normally uses to hold back his curls in boxing. “Right?”

“Do what?” Reclaim his scarf?

“Oh god,” says Courfeyrac dismally. “Oh, god, you’re worse than him.”

“Hey, hey,” says Eponine, who comes in kicking, “ _you_ do something if you’re going to get judgmental about it.”

“Thank you, Eponine,” says Grantaire, smug. He does not need to understand the vaguely alarming comments Courfeyrac and Combeferre keep lobbing. He has Eponine for these things.

“Don’t talk to me,” threatens Eponine, who texts with him about a hundred times a day and is currently watching his Insta story. “Stop talking to me. Stop being so nice to Enjolras.”

“I’m always nice to him,” Grantaire protests, offended. This is true. Grantaire is useless and annoying and easily distracted, but when it comes to Enjolras— he’s always _nice_. Who the fuck is mean to Enjolras? Even when they were fighting, Grantaire’s mockery was always thinly veiled compliments, which seemed to set Enjolras off more than the drunken apathy. (Though not as much as the self-deprecation.) “It’s not my fault he accepts it now! What do you want me to do, offer my scarf and then take it back? He’s cold!”

“Enjolras doesn’t know what temperature is,” Combeferre says. A fair argument. Enjolras dresses exactly the same no matter the season and is seemingly indifferent to weather. This is probably because he is a book protagonist, and it’s clear skies when he needs it to be clear, and rains or snows for dramatic effect. “We did an experiment with the thermostat in our apartment once.”

Grantaire drops his face into his arms and muffles into them, “he’s _cold_. And he knows what temperature is, he—he’s always huffing at _me_ to layer up—”

“God,” repeats Courfeyrac, still grim. “Well, guessing you’re coming over tonight, so Ferre and I will make ourselves scarce.”

 _Why_. Why does Enjolras tell his best friends _everything_.

Eponine, who is a mind reader and also subjected to all-caps texts from Grantaire any time Enjolras so much as adorably sneezes in his direction, gives him a look. It says: _you fucking hypocrite_.

“Nah,” says Grantaire, calmer than he feels. Calmer than he’s been in his entire life. “He always wants to come over to my place. You’re good.”

And this—this is one of the myriad of reasons Grantaire _knows_ he’s right. That the scarf, and occasional cuddling, and the weirdly intentional gratitude Enjolras expresses now, float down gentle and soft to land firmly in the realm of friendship.

Enjolras lets him do these things, but ultimately, he doesn’t invite Grantaire into his spaces. He doesn’t kiss him. Nothing much to interpret or debate in that.

That’s why Grantaire makes the decision to stop having sex with him.

* * *

(“Did you read a psychology book?” It comes out droll, but there’s an undercurrent of exasperation.

Raising an eyebrow, Grantaire says, “another one? Yeah.” He likes psychology.

“You are not here to psychoanalyze me,” his therapist says, “or outmaneuver me.”

“Huh,” says Grantaire, who had not been trying to do either of those things consciously.

“We’re here to talk about you,” his therapist reminds. _[Nobody liked that,]_ says the meme generator in Grantaire’s head. “About relationships. Tell me about yours.”

Grantaire is terrible at relationships, and at himself.

“Not much to tell.”)

* * *

According to his therapist, casually sleeping with the guy he’s secretly in love with a couple times a week isn’t doing his brain any favors.

(“You’re sure he has no feelings for you?”

“Haven’t you been _listening_?”

“I have.”)

Maybe Grantaire’s therapist also has some weird conceptions about Enjolras.

(“Sorry, he asked his devoted group of followers… if they’d be willing… to go on a doomed mission with him?” _Doomed mission_ was Grantaire’s word.

“It’s not a _cult_ ,” Grantaire had protested.

“How many of you is he casually sleeping with?” His therapist isn’t supposed to hurt him like that.

“It’s not a sex cult!”)

So normally he wouldn’t, but. All of that.

Enjolras has him over for the first time in a while, and then Courfeyrac and Jehan come home to the living room and start watching a movie halfway through the afternoon. The idea of a walk of shame when Enjolras has no concept of sexual shame and Grantaire texted Jehan _he has four shoulder freckles, not three!!!!_ a few hours ago is mortifying. So he stays, which—he’ll get ideas. Nobody wants Grantaire to get ideas, least of all Grantaire. Grantaire sleeps over, and stares up at the unfamiliar shadows of Enjolras’ ceiling, and thinks, _I’m going to do it._ He waits until Enjolras has had coffee, and the gauzy haze of sleeping-in has slipped from his own brain, and… does it.

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras holds up a hand, doesn’t look at him. The sounds of him typing speed up. Grantaire waits. After finishing what is probably an eviscerating paragraph in an email, Enjolras nods, and clicks his laptop shut. Focuses all of his addictive attention to Grantaire’s face.

“What’s going on? Are you hungry? You didn’t have breakfast.”

“Um. I have something to talk about with you.”

He looks down at his hands. Flecked with paint, calloused, knuckles a little overlarge. For all their faults, when he wrings his fingers together, they don’t shake. Grantaire’s getting better. He wants to continue getting better.

Ever glorious, Enjolras gives him a smile as gentle as he can manage. Light around the edge of a cloud. There is a lavender hicky blooming halfway up his throat. Grantaire put it there. Enjolras had gasped and arched into it. Enjolras doesn’t know what that usually means.

“Something serious? That’s rare for you.”

“Rude,” Grantaire informs him, and ignores his own urge to sit. If he needs to leave, he’ll leave. His shoes are slip-on. He didn’t wear a jacket here on purpose, even though it’s cold. “Yeah, um. Sort of. Look. I really like… what we do.”

Enjolras blinks. “I know? I haven’t questioned your devotion to the ABC’s morals and our work in a year or two.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, face hot, feeling like he’s melting, “no, um, no. What you and I do. Together. In bed. Or—“ more like on the couch, or in a closet if they’re in the mood. “You know what I mean,” he finishes lamely.

“I do.” Enjolras sets the laptop on the cushion beside him, straightening. “Okay,” he says. “I’m listening.”

God, Grantaire’s going to actually have to do this. Look Enjolras in the eye, or at least in Enjolras’ general direction, and tell him that Grantaire can’t bear to keep touching him because he wants him _that much_.

“Right,” Grantaire practically croaks. “So. It’s been great. But, um, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to go on like this. Because of the—“ _all of Grantaire’s—_ “feelings. You know?”

And this—this is the moment historians would point to, in the metaphorical battle for Grantaire’s heart, that it’s shredded.

Because Enjolras, gently smiling Enjolras, doesn’t say, _okay. I understand. I wish you the best._

He fucking _beams_.

(“What would you do if you found out he reciprocated your feelings?”

Grantaire doesn’t even manage to reply, before the session time is up.)

“Oh,” Enjolras exclaims, quietly effervescent. _Relieved_. Fucking— _delighted_. “We agree. I’m not accustomed to this kind of situation and wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I’m glad you did.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says dumbly. Stupid hydrated body, just flooding his tear ducts with all this water. Grantaire the perpetually drunk never cried, even when he was dry heaving.

Because Grantaire said _I don’t want us to sleep together anymore_ , and the anxious, shit-throwing monkey that is his brain mapped out a lot of possible scenarios. Shrugging dismissal. Laughter. Even anxety-brain had never expected Enjolras’ response to be _relief._ No, worse: joy. A: _thanks for releasing me from this burden!_

“So,” says Enjolras, who is still smiling, like Combeferre has just handed him a petition with a thousand signatures. “Where do we go from here?”

Grantaire will go straight _home_ , and cry himself to sleep, and probably call Eponine or Joly or Jehan.

“Wherever you want,” Grantaire tells him, feeling exhausted. He’s trying to dry his eyes out by staring, hard and unblinking, at the ceiling. “I, um—I’m gonna head home. My cat?”

“Your… cat,” Enjolras says, understandably confused. And then—and then, because for him that little chop of _with-benefits_ away from _friends-with-benefits_ means jack, doesn’t reduce him to stinging sadness, he trails Grantaire to the door. Practically _energized_. “I’ll see you at the meeting?”

“Of course,” Grantaire mumbles, and puts his hand on the door handle, braces for the cold. Nothing will stop Grantaire from attending meetings. Not even this.

Eyeing him, Enjolras gives the first look of hesitance—and maybe this is it, maybe he’ll at least say _it was good_ or maybe, the darkest part of Grantaire hisses, he’ll say _one last time_ —

“Wait here,” Enjolras commands.

Of course, Grantaire does what he does best. “Sure,” he says, and means it, but ultimately disobeys.

Unfortunately, he only makes it on trembling legs to the stairwell, down one flight, before the metal door’s opening and Enjolras is laughing, complaining from above, “I said to _wait_ , aren’t you _cold_?”

Gripping on the railing, like that will save him, he leans out and looks up to the gray sky above, the golden halo of Enjolras leaning from the top floor.

“Hi,” Grantaire manages, and then Enjolras disappears from view, thuds on his perfectly knotted Converse down the stairs to meet him.

“Hi,” Enjolras returns, breathless, and in his arms is a red hoodie. “Here.” What the _fuck_. He lifts it, and then is dragging it over Grantaire’s head, warm and so undoubtedly Enjolras’, the smell clean and dark with coffee, citrus shampoo. “It’s not your signature color,” Grantaire actually likes red, wears it more often than their leader, who likes to blend more into the background, “but better than nothing.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire intones.

“Not a problem.”

Then Enjolras leans in, and kisses him. In plenty of nights and days and fumbling afternoons, Enjolras has never done _that_.

 _Oh,_ Grantaire thinks. _It’s a goodbye_.

“See you around,” Enjolras says, when it’s over, almost decidedly casual, practically— _conspiratorial_. Like it’s a joke, and Grantaire’s in on it. Not like Grantaire— _is_ the joke.

“Bye,” Grantaire says, and watches him ascend. Steadfast, Enjolras doesn’t turn around. _Goodbye_.

It’s hard to tell himself it’s a good thing, but he tucks his hands into the pockets of Enjolras’ hoodie, and thinks, _at least I have this_.

* * *

Grantaire doesn’t give the hoodie back.

He _means_ to, is the thing, even wears it to the meeting so he won’t forget to bring it.

(Also: he doesn’t want to take it off.

“Has he asked for it back?” His therapist messages through the app.

“Apollo doesn’t pay attention to material possessions,” Grantaire messages back, instead of saying _no_.

“Does he ask others to do the same,” comes the next jingle, “does he request you or your friends give up worldly possessions.”

“Not a cult!”)

Except he gets pulled into a discussion with Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta, and he ends up genuinely losing track of time, and then Bossuet realizes he lost his phone (again) and they head out to comb the streets between the Musain and the trio’s apartment.

“Coming back?” Courfeyrac asks, sympathetically, and Grantaire shrugs. Because—who knows. With Bossuet’s luck it got picked up by a bird, set onto a rocket launcher, and is now in orbit.

“Stay warm,” Enjolras calls as they open the door, and smiles at them, and it’s only once Grantaire’s got his face halfway shoved into a storm drain, ready to lose his arm to a manic clown, that he grasps it. Both Bossuet’s runaway phone, and—and Enjolras’ meaning.

Well. At least he’s in no rush to get the hoodie back, because even with it having been rolled up to Grantaire’s shoulder and saved from the inside of the sewer, it needs a good wash.

“You are a god among men,” Bossuet tells him, cradling his phone, and Grantaire brushes mud off his jeans and woefully mutters _sewage god_. “Wanna come over and hang out?”

Their shower pressure is way better than Grantaire’s. He doesn’t even bother verbalizing the yes.

It’s only once he’s wrapped in a fluffy white towel, grime stripped away, that he checks his phone and sees: _Are you home?_

 _nah_ , he types. Typical Enjolras, doing safety checks. _found Bossuet’s phone tho._

 _Good_ , is Enjolras’ prompt reply. _Left the book we talked about on Sun at your door._

 _thx_ , Grantaire shoots back. _have a good night._ And this is good. It’s normal. Weird, that Enjolras apparently—went to his apartment? But Enjolras has always been a little weird. The lengths he goes to for friendship and camaraderie are legendary.

His phone buzzes again. By that point Musichetta is mercilessly running a comb through the tangles of his rarely-brushed mess of hair. He doubts it’s from Enjolras, because Enjolras as a texter is clinically efficient. _Do you have the information? Give me the information._ _You have my gratitude. Goodbye._

It’s only much later, when they’re watching _Clueless_ , that he goes to Snapchat Bahorel and realizes Enjolras sent him a reply. An—an _emoji_.

“Who _fucking_ taught Enjolras to use emojis,” Grantaire half-cries, already knowing the answer is Courfeyrac, and then he stops laughing. Enjolras sent him—sent him _two_. A blushing face, and a too-spaced-out < 3.

Grantaire does not snapchat Bahorel. He presses his cheek as hard into Bossuet’s knee as he can bear, and buries his cold toes beneath glaring Musichetta’s thigh, and leaves Joly alone because Joly is much beloved, and also on the opposite end of the couch.

“You good?” Joly asks, while Cher shoves some boy off, scoffing. Grantaire feels like that boy. Grantaire feels panting, and breathless, and _rotten_. Rotten fruit, so grossly sweet he’s falling to pulpy pieces.

 _Ugh, as if!_ Cher declares, and Grantaire reminds himself with that. Just yesterday, Grantaire said _no more sleeping together,_ and Enjolras had _celebrated_.

Maybe. Maybe, now that they are a truncated _friends_ , _just-friends_ , Enjolras has no hang-ups about being affectionate. There’s no weird line to cross, anymore, or—something. No physical affection for desperate Grantaire to grab onto. That must be why.

Carefully, like he is dismantling a bomb, Grantaire presses a smiley face into his text bar. _Send_.

* * *

Grantaire awakens to five more texts. None of them are emojis.

_Did you see the NYT article on immigration?_

_You probably didn’t yet, it just came out. I’ll summarize. They—_

That one goes on for a while. It really counts as more than one text. Only Enjolras would be up through the night ranting about immigration reform at 2:32am, literally firing off texts into the void, sending them to a sleeping skeptic. The irony is almost palpable.

He scrolls through the diatribe, clicks the article link, and reads it while he waits for the trio to arise from their room. He’s just returned to his texts, ready to start off a long reply of _Apollo, look at page fifteen, are you really—_

The last text is not political commentary.

_Coffee tomorrow (today) at the usual place? I’ll need my second cup around eleven._

_Fuck,_ Grantaire thinks, watching his own traitor thumbs type without his consent.

It’s not that Grantaire doesn’t want to be—truncated friends. He wants that more than anything. He just didn’t think Enjolras would want to speak to him _more_ once he issued a new stance of _no more hands down pants_. Should Grantaire be offended? Should Grantaire be horrified? Did Enjolras even enjoy the—the hands in—

 _sounds good._ And because he’s a masochist: _[thumbs up emoji]_

His phone chimes again, and luckily, a yawning Joly pokes his head out the door. “R, can you make pancakes?”

“Pancakes are easy,” Grantaire says. “I’m making fucking—soufflé. Kringle. Japanese hotcakes.” Grantaire’s making a distraction.

“Okay,” Joly allows, sleepy and indulgent. “Um, we just have the two kinds of flour and some eggs.”

“Perfect,” says Grantaire. “A challenge worthy of my skills.”

He does not look at his phone. He does retrieve his (Enjolras’) hoodie from the dryer, floatingly warm and soft, somehow still smelling overwhelmingly of him. When it’s almost eleven, and his friends are well-fed, and Grantaire’s got a mimosa in him, he checks his texts. Enjolras apparently took the time to iron out the kinks in his < 3\. It’s a proper emoji now.

“Are you drinking that,” asks Grantaire, pointing at the champagne bottle, and unfortunately for him, Musichetta raises an eyebrow and says _yes_.

* * *

(“Why do you think your attempt to get sober didn’t work last time?”

Grantaire picks at the couch. “I’d think this is fairly obvious. It didn’t work because I’m an addict, and addicts generally have piss-poor self control.”

“Did you know,” his therapist says patiently, “most people find quitting cold-turkey is not the most effective path for them.”

“Astounding,” Grantaire muses, eyes comically wide, “drunks don’t like not drinking. So how much am I allowed? A shot? A beer? One moldy grape?”

“That depends,” says his therapist, and of course it does.)

* * *

Despite the weather, Enjolras is waiting for him by the door. Enjolras opens the door for him. Enjolras—buys him coffee?

“Okay,” says Grantaire. “…Okay.” At the last: “Oh… kay?”

Once they sit, Enjolras blasts off on a much-shortened version of his overnight rant, and Grantaire prods at it where it needs prodding, and shears the arguments down to be light and sharp.

“Thanks,” says Enjolras, when their mugs are empty. Then he leans forward, and kisses Grantaire. “See you later?”

“Okay,” says Grantaire. While he returns from astral projecting into what is probably an alternate dimension, Enjolras is already exiting the café. Talking with emphatic gesturing to what is likely Combeferre on the other end of a phone call. When Enjolras looks back, and catches his eye, and waves, somehow awkward, Grantaire has to voice it aloud. _“_ What the _fuck._ ”

Enjolras is too far away. He mouths something mysterious back at Grantaire, and somehow does an aggravated impression of the blushing emoji.

Then he’s gone, stepping out into the afternoon light and bustle without a care in the world.

Grantaire, on the other hand, debates stabbing himself in the thigh with a fork. “Montparnasse,” he hisses, because Montparnasse is at the barista counter. “Montparnasse, did you—did you see?”

“See what?” Parnasse replies, affectedly bored and a little sly.

“Nevermind,” Grantaire despairs, and tucks his phone into the pocket of his ( _Enjolras’_ ) hoodie before he thinks better of it, and stuffs it into his jeans instead. There, it can’t hurt him.

As long as Grantaire wears this hoodie, and keeps any easily misunderstood emojis at bay, he’s safe.

(“Do you feel unsafe,” his therapist says.

“Not a cult!”)

* * *

Enjolras is Enjolras. Safety isn’t guaranteed. So he dismantles every barrier, within two seconds of entering Grantaire’s apartment. But before he manages to get into Grantaire’s apartment, it’s good, for a few days. He drops by Grantaire’s work with a snack and practically glows when Grantaire returns the favor. Proclaims “Grantaire, you didn’t!” when he is presented with his own, specially painted, soapbox.

“It’s meant to be ironic,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras tells him _quiet_ , because Enjolras is now able to tell how long it took Grantaire to design and paint the designs on the side. “You’re going to stand on it during meetings?”

“I’m going to make everyone stand on it,” Enjolras says seriously. And they’re laughing, and maybe Enjolras ducks in and kisses him again, but other than that, it’s not eventful. Nothing to see here.

They go to the museum, and Enjolras nuzzles into his shoulder and fills in historical event details while Grantaire muses on how it relates to the artistic techniques. He buys Grantaire an overpriced sandwich from the museum café, and kicks their ankles together and chats, leaning back on their outdoor bench. Sunning in the autumn breeze. Grantaire can barely swallow a bite.

For someone who just lost his sexual stress relief, Enjolras is remarkably lax. Which—maybe Grantaire had taken some pride in that, at least. They still rubbed each other wrong (and sometimes right), and Grantaire was embarrassing, but at least Enjolras had fewer stress headaches and smiled more. Admittedly, it’s only been a few days, but they’d been eager recently, so he kind of thought—

“You have a text,” he informs Enjolras, whose head is now in his lap. One eye opens.

“What does it say?” Enjolras, who is impeccable, has a boring password on his phone because he has nothing to hide. Poking it in, he reveals, “Feuilly wants your opinion on an essay. He says it’s not urgent.” Always on top of his schoolwork, because he needs to be ready to jump on extra shifts.

“If it’s not,” his eyes are closed again, “tell him I’ll look tomorrow, I’m busy with my boyfriend.”

The phone gets dropped on Enjolras’ face.

“ _Fuck_! Fuck, Grantaire!” His eyes are watering, and he’s clutching his nose, “be careful!”

“Shit, sorry, sorry, are you okay?” Grantaire’s not okay. His heart is pounding. He wants to ask _who’s your boyfriend_ just as desperately as he never, ever wants to hear a single word about him. Now Enjolras is making a mild discomfort noise he normally only makes when one of them slips and jolts a little hard in bed, and Grantaire’s brain _remembers_ that, and Enjolras now has a boyfriend, and he’s—

“It’s fine,” Enjolras grunts, sitting up. “ _Mm_. I was just surprised.” Unnecessarily, Grantaire feels the urge to prove—something. Prove it’s okay. Prove himself.

“Sorry,” he begins. “Hey. You know you can—share shit with me, right?” They’re supposed to be abbreviated friends now. Oversharing seems like an Enjolrasian trait.

His eyes are still shining a little, but he stops holding his nose and murmurs, assured, “I know that.”

“So,” _please do, please don’t_ , “exciting news? For, um, these plans you have with your boyfriend?”

A smile flickers onto his face. Affectionate and amused and not Grantaire’s, not even a little.

“I thought you disapproved of my Type A planning.”

“Of course, but I’m devoted to investigating your Type A behavior. In the name of science.”

“Devoted?” This is said while leaning in, low and serious, and— Enjolras is _unkind_. Like in all his negative traits, it’s not intentional. All Grantaire can do in return is approximate a smile.

“Practicing your question dodging for your inevitable presidential campaign?”

“Hmm?” Blinking, Enjolras sits back. “Oh. No. Just—“ a quick breath “—honestly, I thought I’d play it by ear.”

Grantaire stares at him. This is saying something, because staring at Enjolras is the baseline of his existence, but it’s elevated now. “…who are you?”

“Stop,” complains Enjolras, going pink. “Stop, I’ve just gotten the feedback that—that elaborate and rigid date plans aren’t necessarily… sexy.” Grantaire’s going to have a fucking aneurysm. “So taking that into consideration, I developed a plan to be more spontaneous.”

Correction: Grantaire’s already had an aneurysm. “Enjolras,” he says, when he finally finds his voice, “I’d hope your boyfriend would know what you’re like.” Enjolras deserves someone who—who’ll fucking kiss every knuckle gripping the highlighter to color-code his twenty-step plan. And maybe tease him about it, just a little. For those steps that relied on good human behavior.

“Self-improvement is important,” Enjolras insists.

“Don’t equate self-repression and self-improvement,” Grantaire says, and his voice is too rough, too bursting with ugly things. “You should do things on dates that make _you_ happy.”

Enjolras isn’t looking at him. He is staring at Grantaire’s knees, which would be wobbling if he was standing up. “Can I,” he says.

“Uh, yeah,” Grantaire tells him, puzzled. Enjolras can do anything. Even Grantaire (especially Grantaire) knows that.

Then, like they hadn’t been talking at all, Enjolras lays his head back down on Grantaire’s thigh.

“Give me my phone,” he says, “for safety,” and Grantaire grumbles performatively. “Can we get ice cream after this? And watch a documentary?”

“Try and stop me.” He’s stroking Enjolras hair, because it’s the right thing to do. Somewhere in their conversation, Grantaire’s lost the thread, or maybe Enjolras has decided discussing dates with his former fuckbuddy is not the best use of his afternoon. “Tell me when you need to get back.”

Enjolras looks up at him, mouth quirking up. “I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire snorts, and pinches Enjolras’ earlobe lightly with his fingers, instead of his teeth, “you’re playing it by ear.”

* * *

He walks Enjolras home. This is necessary, because Enjolras walking through the streets unsupervised is a recipe for someone ending up in a police station. Like any hero, he’s inevitably exposed to villains crawling out of the woodwork to catcall and micro-aggress in front of his face. This shit happens to Grantaire and anyone else at a rate so much lower, it’s not even funny. (Okay, so it does happen, but Grantaire knows how to fight that battle less head-on than Enjolras, who comes out fiery and has no issues with swinging.)

He eats his disgusting rainbow sherbet and recalls his latest political textbook with all the intense focus and pleasure Grantaire could ask for. He cone keeps dripping. He keeps licking his palm clean. Grantaire wants to kidnap him. By the time they reach Enjolras’ front door, he’s run out of any reserve of calm.

“I know we watched a documentary in the park on the way home, but there’s another I’ve been looking at on a court case.”

“You’re busy,” Grantaire reminds him. _With your boyfriend_.

Enjolras frowns, and after a long moment hums: “he said it was fine to wait.” Grantaire doesn’t know who Enjolras’ boyfriend is or why he’s starting date night so late, but the desire to stick around waiting for him to appear in what must be his equally godly glory is zilch. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. Flexing his fingers. What if the guy shows up _now_. What if Grantaire has to make _small talk with him?_ “Grantaire, really, Feuilly—“

“HavefunI’lltextyouwhenI’mhomesafebye!”

“Bye?” says Enjolras, and Grantaire is gone.

* * *

_home now. have a nice night. :)_

There. Grantaire’s a normal and good friend.

_it’d be nicer if my boyfriend was here._

The _fuck_ , did someone _stand Enjolras up_? Who. How. Why. Maybe—maybe his boyfriend got called on a secret mission to save the entire country of France? A—a social justice emergency? He realized he was going on a date with Enjolras and had a heart-attack?

_thinking of you._

Oh. Oh, no. Grantaire doesn’t reply. If he replies, he knows exactly what his trembling fingers will type out. The trouble he’ll create. The ever-widening circle of people whose lives he’d fuck over, by trying to fuck Enjolras again. And then, after exactly two minutes and thirty-six seconds have passed, his phone buzzes.

_i’m sure you’re busy._

_sorry._

_Yeah,_ Grantaire thinks, _me too._

* * *

(“Do you consider yourself a bad person?”

“Everyone is a bad person.” Everyone does shit, sometimes. On accident or on purpose.

“Do you think they deserve forgiveness?”

“Forgiveness, or mercy?”

“I’m not trying to be philosophical, Grantaire.”

Grantaire thinks. “Of course people deserve forgiveness.”

“Do you?”

“Doc,” he clutches his heart, “you’ve logic-ked me into a corner. I’ve been tricked into self-esteem.”

“Grantaire,” his therapist sighs, “we only make progress if you let us.”)

* * *

Things are okay for another day or so. Enjolras doesn’t terrify him with progressively cuter emojis. Eponine and Jehan look at him like he’s lost his grip on reality when he asks who Enjolras is dating, so at least he and his new boyfriend aren’t that serious yet. “Grantaire, we agreed I get to shut down one bullshit self-deprecation joke a day, and this is the one I choose.”

“Wha--?”

“Ah-ah. BS coupon.” She passes him something small.

“…this is joint paper.”

“Shh, dear,” says Jehan, their finger to his lips. Behind them, Courfeyrac is talking to Enjolras with a series of hand gestures that are increasing in obscenity at an alarming rate. Maybe he and his boyfriend are getting serious. They must be, and Grantaire has to be okay with that. He’s got his friends and the ABC and he’s got weirdly extended hangouts with Enjolras, which is all so much more than he got when he stopped sleeping with the captain of fencing club, or that senior in boxing club (until Bahorel threw a fit and also some asshole over the ring and people realized forgetting was in their best interest), or literally anyone else he dug his pathetic tenterhooks into in the past. Much more. A red hoodie as the cherry on top. It’s enough.

And then Enjolras comes to his apartment.

“Off,” he says, and from him, it’s not even bossy.

“What,” says Grantaire, before realizing Enjolras’ perfect hand is tugging at an oversized red sleeve. “Oh, right, sorry, I really meant to give it back to—“

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras says. “Keep it as long as you want. But right now—take it off.”

This seems contradictory. Grantaire takes it off anyway. “Sorry.”

“You should be. I texted you and you didn’t reply.” Enjolras frowns at the hoodie, which Grantaire is holding up between them. He accepts it, but only for as long as it takes him to toss it onto the coffee table. “Were you sleeping?”

“Wha,” says Grantaire, and then Enjolras is sneaking a hand up his bare chest, inside his shirt.

“I’d rather text you words,” says Enjolras, “but Courf says an emoji is worth a hundred words and comes with a plethora of implica—“

“Um,” says Grantaire, “what,” and that’s when Enjolras kisses him the third time.

Which—this time, it’s not a goodbye. The way Enjolras tilts his chin, and sucks at his bottom lip, and traces the ridge of his soft palate with his orator’s tongue—that is _not a goodbye._ Grantaire wasn’t really committed to a goodbye anyway. So—he gives back as good as he gets. Tangles fingers in that fine hair and lets their tongues duel in a way that’s unfamiliar. There are only two lines he manages to hold—Enjolras’ roaming hand settles, when Grantaire grasps and squeezes it. And when Enjolras leans in, eager, so far forward it could have them toppling back, falling together, Grantaire doesn’t go.

Grantaire is a skeptic and a pessimist. All roads lead to bad endings, but that one he was trying not to careen down.

("Nobody is a good person," Grantaire says, "but we should all try." It's worth it to try. The ABC taught him that.)

He said they should stop. Admittedly, he said they should stop what they were doing, and what they were doing was bendy, enthusiastic young-adult-sex with no kissing and a lot of laughter. Now there is no laughter, and Enjolras looks awkwardly intense, and there will be no sex if Grantaire wants to look at himself in the mirror tomorrow.

(“It’s good to have standards for yourself,” his therapist begins, and Grantaire interrupts:

“I don’t.”

“To the contrary, I think you have some very high ones. Ones you believe you’ll never meet.”

“Some people meet them. I’m surrounded by them.” By him.

“That sounds like a good start for you, wouldn’t you say?”)

“Is everything all right?” Enjolras asks, very low and very determined.

 _Your mouth!_ Grantaire wants to scream. Enjolras’ mouth is everything, and it more than all right. _On my mouth!_

“I didn’t know you liked kissing,” is all that manages to escape.

Blinking, Enjolras says, “hmm, I guess I do.”

Like—like this is a realization he’s coming to, guided by Grantaire’s too-large mouth and unshaven stubble.

“Okay,” Grantaire says faintly, “well, that’s… educational—“

He kisses Enjolras this time. And it’s deep, and a heated torrent, and eventually Enjolras seems to realize that Grantaire won’t lie back, so he straddles him, instead, and caves him in against the couch cushion. Everything’s fine, everything’s wrecked, but it’s objectively fine. They’re obeying the fine print of Grantaire’s promise to himself, if not the spirit.

Until— he loosens his grip on Enjolras hand so he can sweep his own up and down Enjolras’ spine, and Enjolras takes this as a sign to go for his shirt. In rapid order, the button on his jeans.

“ _Whoa_ ,” Grantaire yelps. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

Scooting back in his lap, Enjolras says, sounding hesitant but unapologetic, “you usually initiate. I know I’m not as skilled.”

“We _talked_ about this,” Grantaire blurts. They’d talked about this, and Enjolras sings his praises of consent like any activist thrown into the sexual septic tank of the public university system. Enjolras had agreed. Been thrilled, even.

There is the cutest, most infuriating little furrow in Enjolras’ brow. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Is it—do you want to slow that part down? Is this why you’ve been distant?”

Last week, Enjolras had him for two hours, and made him cry a little, and he’d probably said something in the heat of the moment that he’d regret if he could recall. Can you slow down, once you’re in free fall? Can you do anything but cartoon-splat yourself into the merciless pavement, staring up at the majestic Enjolras in flight above?

But there’s something in that. In the idea of—slowing down. Because Enjolras is still under the impression that they’re in motion.

“Enjolras?” He tries. “I said we shouldn’t sleep together anymore. Not to assume, but you once had me paint _No = No_ across your perfect face and let me write _Yes Doesn’t = Ho_ on your back, so—so.”

Enjolras _stares_. He opens his perfect mouth, and shuts it. Volcanoes sometimes let out warning billows of smoke, so maybe that isn’t weird.

“You said,” Enjolras clears his throat. Finally speaks. “You said—no more sleeping together? That’s what you wanted to talk about a few days ago?”

“…yeah?” In the interest of not getting emotional about it, or nasty, Grantaire goes for the joking. “Remember, you practically threw confetti and then stalked me in a stairwell out of concern for my health?” Without much input from him, his hands are squeezing at Enjolras’ waist. “…remember?” Grantaire remembers. Pepperidge Farm remembers. Pepperidge Farm has had some great sales in the last few days, because Grantaire’s been popping Milanos like they’re the fix to a broken heart.

In Grantaire’s lap, Enjolras sways back. “Oh,” he says faintly. “ _Oh_.”

Scrambling to course correct, Grantaire says, “you’ve been great! Super great about it. No complaints. We can keep—“ he waves a hand between them, not sure if he means _kissing_ or _hanging out_ or _you existing flawlessly while I continue to be your friendly neighborhood bridge troll_ — “you know.”

Enjolras’ gaze seems stuck on Grantaire’s mouth. Like he cannot believe the words that keep tripping from it. He leans in. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, formed at the hands of a master sculptor. Grantaire takes a deep breath of his own, and wads his ugly, squealing core, scuttling with feelings, into a ball that he can wrap up in steel. _Ready_ , he tells himself.

In return, Enjolras flicks his eyes up to the ceiling as he says: “I’m going to head home.”

_Home?_

“Home?” says Grantaire.

“Cat,” Enjolras says, with glorious conviction. Enjolras does not have a cat.

“Cool,” Grantaire says, flabbergasted. “Um, tomorrow, coffee?” Enjolras stares at him. “Friendly coffee?” Enjolras wanted to be friends. In the last few days, it had _really_ seemed like Enjolras wanted to be friends. It’d been painful. But better than the alternative.

Grantaire is not unfamiliar with losing someone, once sex is off the table. Losing Enjolras, he realizes, was his biggest fear. That’s why it had been okay, when Enjolras beamed. When Enjolras texted him nonstop. When nothing made sense. It had been okay, because it was better than the alternative.

“I’ll—“ he sounds a handle deep, throat raw and delivery unsteady. “I’ll see you at the meeting?” Enjolras is putting on his coat. _Please_ , Grantaire wants to beg, but he’s too prideful, so instead all that comes out is: “Enjolras?”

“Of course,” Enjolras murmurs. Like he’s shaking himself out of a dream. “Grantaire, of course I’ll see you at the meeting.” And holds out his arms.

Grantaire gets to hug him, before letting him go. Squeezes tight as he dares. Then Enjolras leaves.

Falling back to the cushion where, five minutes ago, Enjolras was straddling him and sucking on his tongue, Grantaire curls up in fetal position. Everything will be fine. Objectively, Grantaire’s dealt with way worse. Objectively, Grantaire leads an easy life. His family pays taxes on this apartment. His friends are fantastic. His crush deigned to give him the time of day by spelling it out with his dick or his hips, multiple times. His drinking has been not admirable, but manageable. That of a regular fratty university student.

He wants to call Eponine. But on the coffee table, the red hoodie practically beacons out. _Shit_ , Grantaire thinks. He’d forgotten again. But—but maybe if he hurries—if he hurries this will cut off cleanly—Grantaire’s a mess but this one thing can be—

He sprints.

* * *

Grantaire’s apartment does not have a massive stairwell, just one set of steps and a winding walkway. At the end of it, Enjolras glows. Against his own judgment, Grantaire runs to catch him. Just before he taps that firm shoulder, the one that could carry nations, he hears:

“You’re misunderstanding. He didn’t break up with me, Courf, it just became clear he never asked to date. _Yes_. I don’t _know_ , I think I almost—I think I almost initiated sex against his consent, I need an assembly, I need—“ Enjolras straightens, suddenly, and it knocks his shoulderblade against Grantaire’s hand.

“Your hoodie?” Grantaire manages to bleat. He holds it out.

“Thank,” Enjolras says, slow, eyes painfully wide, “you.”

“Enj?” Comes Courf’s voice from the phone. Tentatively, Enjolras takes the hoodie. “Enj, that’s Grantaire, isn’t it, you never express this much gratitude to anyone but—“

“Did you,” Grantaire’s looking between the phone and Enjolras’ stricken face, “did you say _date_?”

“Fuck,” Enjolras breathes quietly.

“Like date _me_?”

“ _Fuck_.” He takes the phone from his ear, presses the _end call_ like it’s just something or him to do. He continues to stare at it, after. Finally, there comes a soft, “you’re going to think I’m naïve again.”

Grantaire thinks anyone with a shred of hope is naïve. Most of this world is depressing or dull.

(“Grantaire,” his therapist had said once. “Do you not think that’s indicative of you maybe having depression?”

“That’s just reality,” Grantaire had said then.)

Only Enjolras and their friends and some of his hobbies make him feel like there’s happiness out there, right here, within his grasp. But Enjolras, naïve?

“Probably,” Grantaire tells Enjolras, because Grantaire’s an idiot. “I still want to hear whatever you’re thinking.”

Enjolras stiffens. “Fine. I don’t care if you mock me. I’m used to it.” Jaw setting, he says, “I’ve liked you for a while. I agreed to the arrangement because it seemed like an opportunity to get to know you. And I recognize it was my own projection of my feelings onto the situation, but a few days ago you said—you were talking about _feelings_ , and not going on like we have before, and…” he trails, hitches a little. “Oh. You… figured out that I liked you, I guess. Is—is that why you cut it off?”

Grantaire stares at him. Grantaire continues to stare, and flip the words around in his head. There’s some way this puzzle fits together that makes _sense_ , goddammit, so—

“But you have a boyfriend.”

“…you?”

Grantaire would fucking remember that conversation. If Enjolras wants to for once in his life misremember a historical detail, Grantaire’s not going to correct him.

“You like _me_?”

The little furrow deepens. “Grantaire,” he huffs. “You’re the first one I talked to, about the immigration article. Whether you thought my speech at the meeting was problematic. We watched a documentary and went to the museum.” The immigration article. His speech. A museum. Not— _a few minutes ago we were making out on your couch._ Not _I bought you coffee_. Not _I want to hold your hand._

“Right,” says Grantaire slowly. “So—you like me as a friend.”

“Gran _taire_ ,” Enjolras strangles out. “I tried to _date you_.” And maybe—beneath that little waver, there’s a hint of those things now. In and out, in and out, his little breath cycle that Grantaire intimately knows, that means Enjolras is calming himself down and dotting those bulletpoints in his head for the inevitable.

So. He could hear an organized, impassioned speech. On why Enjolras has somehow lost all common sense—probably he’s running dry, used it all for activism and has none left for the personal—and is interested in dating him. Grantaire could listen to that speech right now, or—

He takes Enjolras’ face between his hands, cups each cheek with a palm, so he feels it when Enjolras begins to smile. Feels everything, when he kisses him, deep and slow. The trembling in his hands stilled.

“Hey, so,” he half-pants, dropping back and letting his wrists fall to rest on Enjolras’ shoulders. “You want to come make that speech you’re about to give inside?”

“How did you,” Enjolras says, dazed. Eventually he decides against pursuing it, just presses lips to Grantaire’s forehead and still doesn’t let Grantaire lead, not even to his own front door. They might get distracted on the porch, again. They get very distracted, but ever directed, Enjolras is sliding a hand into Grantaire’s back jean pocket both for a feel and a search, huffing, “keys?”

“Ah, shit.” He’d been in such a rush earlier, he hadn’t even considered. “I think? I’m locked out of my own apartment? Want to help me break in through my back window?”

Enjolras groans into the curve of his shoulder, and it’s a _why-is-this-happening_ kind of sound, not a sexy one. It makes Grantaire clutch at him all the same. After so much banter, the reaction is probably Pavlovian.

“It’s too high up,” he muses, then. Even mouthing at Grantaire’s neck, his logical brain is ticking.

“Well,” Grantaire exhales, “well,” _nip_ , “we could call a locksmith—“

“We could go to my apartment.”

Technically, Grantaire is looking at his front door, but none of the visual information is processing. “I don’t have clothes. Or a bed.”

“I have clothes,” Enjolras says. Almost exasperated. “I have a bed.”

“Congratulations,” Grantaire mutters. “Bully for you—“

“Grantaire,” he says, and now it’s outright impatient.

“ _Oh_.” A pause. “Those are yours—“

“I like you,” says Enjolras. It’s pragmatic and firm and practically a call to action. “Romantically. I want to be together. To share.”

How is anyone supposed to deal with _that_? There’s a desperate greed sweeping up in his chest. He could ask for so much right now—another kiss, or a _date_ , or for Enjolras to lace their fingers together, or maybe just to lie entwined on the couch debating about some article or philosophy. Grantaire could get _wild_.

Enjolras isn’t a drug. This won’t be an overdose. It’s—it’s something to build on. A way to feel more, and more, and weave into the foundation of his life.

“Fucking,” his face is hot, “fucking give me back your hoodie?”

With zero shame, Enjolras traces their steps to where they dropped it on the sidewalk. Brushes it off, jogs up the stairs, and tugs it down over Grantaire’s head again. “Here.”

“Thank you. Putting on more clothing layers is so sexy, I’m sure,” and now he’s rambling. Tugging at the hoodie strings until his flushed face is getting swallowed up in soothingly scented red, curving himself away, because—it’s _embarrassing_. Grantaire’s always been a guy with a lot of feelings, like enough to paralyze him. It was always easier to hide, or press into apathy, but he’s never been able to do that when faced with Enjolras. “Like, pinup calendar, everybody in parkas and ski masks and those, um, neon marshmallow outfits—“

“Shut _up_ ,” Enjolras breathes. Grantaire’s first inclination is to say it right back, but he doesn’t want that, not ever.

Because he is a bastion of wit, Grantaire just says: “never.” Then, because he is a weak and unoriginal man, “this hoodie—“

“Don’t,” says Enjolras, but there’s a smile in it.

“It’s _boyfriend material_.”

On a sigh, Enjolras says, “can the boyfriend see what’s wrapped up in the boyfriend material?”

“Oh,” Grantaire half-squeaks, “not on my porch, nah, there’s a nosy elderly grandparent type upstairs--“

“You don’t have to hide.” There are fingers invading his nice, dark, Enjolras-scented hoodie cave. He kisses a few, and gets gentle teeth into the thumb, apologizes with a lave of his tongue. “Fuck,” says Enjolras. But he has marvelous willpower, so he does eventually accomplish his goal of exposing Grantaire’s face.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Come on,” Grantaire says, “it takes fifteen minutes to walk to your place if we cut across the park. Lead the way.”

It takes them forty minutes. Neither of them mind.

* * *

At some point during their impromptu afternoon nap, Enjolras jolts up and exclaims, “Courfeyrac.”

“Fast jump to consciousness, there,” Grantaire hums.

Enjolras squints at him. “I’m not actually sleeping, you know.”

 _Splash_ , goes his heart into his stomach. “Like—you’re telling me you don’t pass out after sex? Personal experience suggests otherwise.”

“I’m never sleeping,” says Enjolras, who has evidently kept his eyes shut and breaths even for a few months while Grantaire lightly touched and stroked over his face, his hair, his everything in the afterglow.

“Buh,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras isn’t looking at him but at his phone when he says, easily,

“I just like lying there with you. If we’re at your place you don’t leave. It’s nice.”

Emotions have Grantaire word vomiting. “Can’t you just send him a thumbs up emoji?”

“I left him hanging,” says Enjolras, with fierce shame. “Four _hours_ ago. Courfeyrac and I don’t go that long without talking.” And he’s rearranging Grantaire’s limbs so it’s only a mild discomfort for them to prop up, together, on the pillow pile.

“Sorry I hung up on you earlier,” Enjolras says, sheepish in his own way.

“BETRAYAL,” Courfeyrac squawks through the speakerphone.

“I was panicking,” says Enjolras, now mild and languorous in that way he only gets after engaging someone in a thrilling verbal match or having affectionate sex (with Grantaire, sometimes both).

“Is R there?”

“He’s here. He’ll be here. Are you and Ferre coming by?”

There’s muffled conversation and static for a few moments. “No, we’re gonna preserve our brotherly impression that you are a sexless jellyfish.”

“Jellyfish have sexual and asexual periods,” Grantaire pipes in. This must be what summons a new voice to the phone.

“Did someone say cnidarian life cycles?” Wrassling for the phone ensues, with a hissed, _they are important!_ “Enj. Tell me you’ve got this sorted.”

“I mean, I didn’t _sign_ anything,” Grantaire says.

“Would you,” says Enjolras, who looks dangerously considerate of the idea.

“With the right legal representation,” Grantaire replies, voice going warmer, and that’s when Courfeyrac cuts in,

“For the love of god, will someone please teach me about cnidarians! Let’s stay focused, kids.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, but he’s not looking at the phone. He’s looking at Grantaire. “Ferre, we’ve got this sorted.”

“He’s your boyfriend?” Ferre prompts.

“Yes.” Enjolras didn’t say that. This time, it was Grantaire, but it’s definitely Enjolras who throws the phone down and two arms around him.

“Thank you.”

“Um,” says Grantaire. “You’re welcome?”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Enjolras repeats, ever fervent. How is Grantaire supposed to stay rational in the face of that?

“Really,” he says, and takes Enjolras’ face in his hands, kisses him, and it sounds like a joke, but it’s almost not. “Thank _you_. This is a gift exchange.” In that Grantaire is ecstatically surprised by what he got, and equally happy just in being able to give his love to Enjolras at all. “Honestly, what else can I say that an emoji wouldn’t do better?”

“Emojis do not communicate well,” Enjolras states. “I sent you hearts.”

“You didn’t ask me to be your boyfriend! Just starting whipping that term around. Terrifying.”

“Is that a problem,” Enjolras frowns. It is not a pout. It barely scrapes out of pout territory, just because Enjolras is a paragon of dignity.

For once, a lack of brain-to-mouth filter does Grantaire some good. “ _No_.” His shoulders settle. “No, I was just… confused.”

“I’ll communicate more in the future. But—I kissed you.”

Grantaire winces. “Yeah, in retrospect, I… probably should’ve put together that something wasn’t adding up earlier? Should’ve listened to Eponine and Jehan and Joly and my therapist. _Oh_. I, um, I have a therapist,” he admits, and Enjolras just nods. Because Enjolras doesn’t judge. And he _likes Grantaire_. Grantaire has a therapist, and good friends, and a boyfriend, and still has some problems, but overall, he possesses a better outlook on life.“They are not going to believe _any_ of this.”

“Something tells me,” says Enjolras, “that they will.”

* * *

(“Yeah, so,” he tugs at a fray in his jeans, “me and not-a-cult-leader are dating.”

“I’m happy for you.”

 _Are you not surprised?_ Grantaire wants to scream. Then he thinks: _was anyone surprised?_ Holds onto that thought. Stores it for later.

“I know your relationship concerned you in the past. Do you think this has changed the way you approach communicating with people that you care about?”

“Oooh,” Grantaire sucks in a breath. “Ooh, y’know, when you say it that way, you really make me want to confront my numerous insecurities.”

“…really.”

“No, man. I never want to do that. Still here. Yay self-improvement. What emotional scar within that are we picking at next?”)

**Author's Note:**

> did I finally write a fic where they didn't confess passionate love to one another instead of the relatively normal "hey I like you"  
> almost.  
> i am angry that eponine and the other amis do not feature more in here. unfortunately that is how this dumb piece turned out. i really tried babes. but it got too long  
> i'm cade and i appreciate your presence. tanks for reading and reviewing and anything else. mwah. Here's my [ tumblr ](https://serinesaccade.tumblr.com/)


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